Sherlock and the Case of the Captured Best Friend
by FrodoLuverNumber1
Summary: Sherlock is bored like usual when John and him get a new case. It's been months since they've seen Moriarty but does this new case have something to do with the criminal mastermind? What happens when Sherlock is arrested for a horrific crime he hasn't commmited? And what happens when John, the only person who believes in Sherlock's innocence, is kidnapped by Moriarty?
1. Chapter One: The Warehouse

Sherlock and the Case of the Captured Best Friend

A Sherlock Fan Fiction

By: Amber Warren

So guys! I started writing this because I had (another) Sherlock marathon tonight and felt like writing. Tell me whatcha' think! :)

Oh and guys, I really appreciate reviews! Alot! So please review! Who knows? It might speed up the writing process and make me upload faster? :)

Disclaimer: (Sadly) I don't own Sherlock. :'(. First off, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns Sherlock Holmes and Steven Moffast and Mark Gatniss (sorry if I spelt that wrong) own the AMAZING BBC show Sherlock. I only own oringinal characters. Oh, wait. There isn't any really. Oh Well!

"John, come in here right now!"

John Watson hurriedly dashes into his flat's cluttered living room. "What, Sherlock? What's wrong?"

His flat mate, Sherlock Holmes, is lying on their couch, staring up at the ceiling with a bored expression on his face. "I need tea."

John lets out an angry huff and replies, "Really? I thought something was seriously wrong!"

"Yes, is there is something wrong!" Sherlock sits up and tightens his favorite blue bathrobe around his thin middle. "I don't have a cup of tea in my hand!"

John rolls his eyes and stalks back to the kitchen to get his obnoxious roommate some tea. "You know, you could ask nicely once in a while. Like saying 'please' and 'thank-you'? Ever heard of it?"

"You know that's not my style, John," Sherlock grins at his friend.

"Yeah, I know, I know," John grumbles and begins to make the tea.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had been living in 221B Baker Street for quite some time now. They always solved cases together. Sherlock Holmes was the smartest man in all of London…according to himself. "His massive intellect" usually made other people quite angry and annoyed with him. Sherlock's cocky, over-confident demeanor and I'm-better-and-smarter-than-everyone-here attitude made it hard for people to like him or enjoy his company. It was John who actually made Sherlock get out of the house besides to solve cases for Scotland Yard and he made him socialize with people, one of the few skills Sherlock did not possess. John was quite different than his flat mate. John was quiet but sociable and kind. _Quite_ the opposite of Sherlock. They were very different but considered each other, their best friends. Greg Lestrade, the inspector for Scotland Yard, and Sally Donavan, a police sergeant for Scotland Yard, did not have much patience for the "consulting detective", as Sherlock tended to call himself. But they do call him in because he is the best at what he does.

John makes the tea in a couple of few short minutes. "Here," John says, placing the tea on a table beside the couch his genius companion was lounging on. "You know, you could make tea for yourself."

"But that's boring!" Sherlock rolls his vibrant blue eyes and throws up his arms in apparent disgust for the simple task. "Much too boring!"

"I bet it's more exciting wasting than laying here like a lazy bum all day," John points out.

Sherlock narrows his eyes but dismisses his friend's point. "Any new cases?"

"Not since you asked fifteen minutes ago," John sighs as he sits down in his favorite green armchair. He rubs his neck and groans. He'd been on call at the hospital and had had a rough night.

"Lots of things can happen in fifteen minutes, John!" Sherlock exclaims. "Especially with criminals! Call, call, call!"

Now, it's John's turn to roll his own light brown eyes. "Fine, just shut up! You're giving me a headache!"

Sherlock grins in victory as John takes out his mobile and punches in Scotland Yard's cell number. "Hello, Lestrade. Yeah, it's John. Anything new?"

Sherlock sits up and crouches on his legs. His hands are pressed together and to his lips, a position he always does. He's eagerly awaiting the results.

"Okay. Alright. Thank-you. Yeah, bye," John says and ends the call. "You're in luck. There's been a string of murders."

"Yes!" Sherlock shouts, seemingly at the top of his lungs, fully unaware that shouting, "Yes!" at such news makes him sound like a psychopath, not a "fully-functioning sociopath". "Come on! I want to get over there as soon as possible!"

"I'm ready but you are, but you do realize it's about fifty degrees out and you do _not_ have the proper outfit for how cold it is," John points out.

Sherlock looks down at his outfit. He's wearing a dark blue t-shirt, his favorite robe, a pair of pajama pants, and a pair of blue plaid slippers. "Oh," he mumbles. "One minute!"

Sherlock rushes to his room and closes the door. He hurriedly sheds his clothes and pulls on a pair of dark dress pants, a blue (if you can't tell, blue is his favorite color) button-up shirt with a collar, and a pair of black dress, shoes (his most casual pair).

Sherlock runs a hand through his mess of ebony curls and shrugs. Should he use a brush? Neh. It's good enough.

Sherlock practically skips out of his room and says, "Ready to go?"

"Yeah, and I can see you clearly are, too," John laughs at Sherlock's almost child-like behavior. "C'mon, let's get going before you explode from excitement!"

The two go down the stairs and open the door before Sherlock says, "Oh, wait!"

Sherlock opens the closet door and grabs his absolute favorite black Belstaff "Milford" trench coat. "Almost forgot Now, I'm ready!"

Walking into Scotland Yard, Sherlock and John see numerous cops and police sergeants frantically running around the place. They enter Lestrade's office and Sherlock says, "Hello, Lestrade. I hear you need my help? Not that I'm surprised."

Greg Lestrade looks up from his desk which is scattered with loads of paperwork. In his hand, the inspector holds a coffee mug bearing the words, "Happy Birthday, Greggy!" on it and it's filled to the brim with black coffee no doubtedly containing quite a few shots of caffeine in it. "Yes, I get it! You're a genius! Just cut the crap for a few minutes alright? We're swamped here and I want you in and out of here before Sally notices you're he-"

Before he can finish his sentence, Sally Donavan enters the room, staring at a sheet of paper. "We found another body and now-"

The second her eyes meet with Sherlock, they narrow. "Oh, great! Freak's here!"

"Nice to see you to, Sally!" Sherlock mocks sarcastically. "What? You're not happy to see me? Because I'm thrilled to see you!"

Sally rolls her dark brown eyes and turns to Lestrade. "Really? You _had_ to invite the Freak?"

"John called and I couldn't lie to him and tell him there was nothing going on!" Lestrade explains to the ticked off Sally.

Unlike Sherlock, Lestrade and Sally actually like John because of his kind nature. They enjoy his company even if it means having to deal with Sherlock.

"Well, that's just grand," Sally mutters. "Well, come on, you two! Let's get to the first crime scene."

"The first?" Sherlock asks, as the three exit the bulding and start walking to Sally's car. He gets slightly excited about the promise of more than one crime scene and actually feels a bit guilty about it, which is odd for him. "How many are there?"

"Yes, the first," Sally says sadly. "There's been about three bodies found and the total keeps rising. Here's my car. Hop in."

The duo opens the door of Sally's green Prius and slide into the car. Sherlock thinks to himself, _Figure's the prick would have a Prius_.

The newly formed trio drive down the streets of London, making turns willy-nilly it seems. They finally come to an old abandoned warehouse.

"They found a body here?" John asks incredulously.

"No, John, that's why Sally took us here. Because they _didn't_ find a body," Sherlock says snottily. "Really, John, do you not think before you speak _at all_?"

John ignores Sherlock's rude comment as the three walk into the creepy old building. A shiver travels down Sherlock's spine at the place and he tightens his coat around him.

And the body sends a shiver through all of the group's spines. It's a young woman about twenty-five. She's obviously a flight attendant from the twisted bun her brown hair is in and she has obviously just come here from a hot place, most likely Florida or California, judging by her tan. She is married to a _very_ wealthy man by the size and look of her engagement and wedding rings, so she is a flight attendant to raise her self-esteem and not just be a trophy-wife or a stay-at-home-mom, which Sherlock can't blame her for. She is either had bad eyes or is self-conscious about the color of her eyes because Sherlock detects contact lenses atop her eyes. She is wearing expensive jewelry and it looks very new so her husband probably screwed up and either cheated or some other idiotic thing like that. The jewelry is obviously an attempt to make it up to her, but it doesn't seem like she forgave him. All of that was obvious to Sherlock. Who knew how much those two idiots got from her? Not much, he guesses.

But the creepiest part of the body is that she sits with her back to a wall, with one hand resting on her lap and one cupped underneath her chin, holding up her head. Her eyes are wide-open and her lips are covered in ruby-red lipstick. A strand of brunette hair falls over her temple. Sherlock (with a gloved hand, of course) bends down and pushes aside the strand revealing a very small, very clean bullet-hole. Sherlock had started to think that maybe it was suicide with her cheating husband and meaningless life, but if she had shot herself she couldn't have cleaned up the blood around her wound, obviously, which is how the wound looks. It looks as if she was shot and then someone cleaned up the wound. Who would do that? It look as if they had tried to make it as theatrical as they could. Who would _do _something like this?

And then, with a sick feeling creeping its way into his stomach, Sherlock realizes he knows of someone who would do this. Someone he hadn't dealed with since a him and John had escaped a certain terrifying pool duel. And when Sally hands him an envelope and says, "We found this. It's addressed to you," his worst fears are realized.

As Sherlock opens the envelope and reads it, his heart plummets straight to the floor.

To My Dearest Sherlock,

Hello, my lovely! You didn't think you could get rid of me so easily, did you? Oh, no! No, no, no, no! There's much more to come! And I know you'll solve my case. You always do. That's what intrigues me so much about you. You _always_ solve the case! …But would you be able to solve a case if it was about your own best friend?

Your BFF,

Moriarty

REVIEWS REVIEW REVIEW!


	2. Chapter Two: The Fake Tip

Sherlock and the Case of the Captured Best Friend

A Sherlock Fan Fiction

By: Amber Warren

Hey guys! So, I really appreciate reviews! Alot! So please review! Who knows? It might speed up the writing process and make me upload faster? :)

Disclaimer: (Sadly) I don't own Sherlock. :'(. First off, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns Sherlock Holmes and Steven Moffast and Mark Gatniss (sorry if I spelt that wrong) own the AMAZING BBC show Sherlock. I only own oringinal characters. Oh, wait. There isn't any really. Oh Well!

"Sherlock? What does it say? Who's it from?"

Sherlock looks up into the soft brown eyes of his best friend. They hide a tint of worry, as if John suspects it is who it is, too.

"It says that there's much more to come and that I'll probably solve this case," Sherlock says, a tad quieter than he usually is. Sherlock decides to leave out the part about John; he doesn't want to scare his best friend. And with Moriarty who knew if he was lying? He was a consulting criminal after all, wasn't he? Moriarty was a madman. Who knew what he would or wouldn't do? He was very, er, creative. That's what intrigued Sherlock about Moriarty. Unlike most of the criminals in London, you never knew what he was thinking. But the very fact that Sherlock was intrigued by the criminal mastermind scared him a bit. John had told Sherlock one time that Sally had told John that one day they'll be standing around a body and that Sherlock will have been the one to put it there. Sherlock shivered at the thought. Did people really think that? And would that actually happen? No. He enjoyed solving cases. If he had killed someone, that wouldn't be much of a case to solve, now would it?

"Who's it from?" John repeats, interrupting Sherlock's thoughts.

With a sigh, Sherlock answers, "Moriarty."

John's eyes widen. "Oh, wonderful! We have to deal with that bastard again!" John says with a hint of anger and annoyance in his voice. Those are the most two obvious emotions, but Sherlock detects a slight hint of terror there. "So all he said was there's more to come and that you'll probably solve the case?"

Sherlock nods and bites his lip. He hates lying to John but he doesn't want to worry John. Just at the name of Moriarty, John freaked out a bit. To find out Moriarty could be after him? He'd absolutely loose it.

John shakes his head, obviously trying to forget about the night at the pool when he was almost blown to bits by the madman. John absolutely _despises _Moriarty. Not only had he almost killed John himself, but he'd also almost killed multiple people and _had_ killed a few. Who would do that?

"Anyway," John says, trying to change the subject, "what do you know about the young woman?"

Sherlock tells them all he knows and the record all of the information.

Sally nods. "Alright. Well, would you two like to see the other crime scenes?"

"Of course," Sherlock replies quite excitedly and they head off to the next crime scene.

After Sherlock and John had investigated the crime scenes, they return to their flat. Sherlock flops back on the couch and gets into his signature hands-together-pressed -to-lips pose. He thinks about all of the evidence he'd gather at the other two crime scenes.

First crime scene: It had been a young man about seventeen or eighteen. He'd been found in a park by a river. He was a student at the Belford School for Juvenile Boys judging by his jacket. The boy had a bag of cocaine in his pocket, so this Belford School wasn't really helping this bloke with his problem. He was either dealing or using it himself. It was a big bag, so he probably sold it or took some for himself, that much wasn't clear, even for Sherlock. He was in the same position as the woman was and had the same wound.

Second crime scene: This one had been an older woman than the first. She'd been found in her own apartment when her friend had come to visit her. That's a nice surprise. In her wallet, she had a picture of herself and her family, but an older male had been ripped out of the picture, so she was obviously divorced and Sherlock deduced the children had gone with father dearest, because even if they were divorced, she probably wouldn't of crossed him out if he hadn't done something horrible to her or at least horrible in her eyes. Again, she was in the same position and had the same gunshot wound.

This was obviously Moriarty's work. Everyone was the same way and had the same wound. He obviously shot them, wiped up the blood to make it look, er, cleaner? Sherlock didn't know why he'd do that. Anyway, then he'd position them. Why? They looked like creepy dolls almost. They were so off-putting.

But why? Why would he kill them? Last time, he'd made Sherlock and John (mostly Sherlock) solve various cases or he would blow up people. Why would he just kill people? It wasn't very theatrical.

"Hey, Sherlock?" John's soft voice floated into Sherlock's mind and brought him out of his thoughts.

"What, John?!" Sherlock snaps madly at his flat mate, his eyes widen open and angry. "Haven't I told you multiple times not to talk to me when I'm in my Mind Palace?"

John stares at the floor and says, "Sorry, but I was just wondering if you wanted any more tea since you never had any."

Sherlock's eyes soften and so does his voice. He really shouldn't be such an ass all the time. John was nothing but nice and how did he reciprocate? By being a total jerk. Be nice, Sherlock. What had John said? Use manners? "Oh, yes please. Thank-you."

John raises his eyes and his eyebrows are furrowed. "What did you just say?"

"I said, 'Oh, yes please. Thank-you,'" Sherlock says, tilting his head in confusion. "Why?"

"No, it's nothing," John shakes his head and smiles. "I just didn't think you were cable of being polite."

"John," Sherlock grins, "I'm capable of everything."

John laughs and says, "Wow!"

John makes another batch of tea and sets it before the consulting detective. Sherlock takes a big sip and smiles. "Thank-you."

"No problem," John smiles.

So the duo sit in their cluttered living room, both sipping tea and just talking. Talking about life at the hospital, crap telly, and just life. Like real friends. Not just flatmates, but best friends.

"Hey, John," Sherlock says. He feels he should tell his friend about the part in Moriarty's letter about John. He should know just so he can be alert. "I need to te-"

But at that moment, John mobile rings. "Oh, one sec," he says and answers his phone. "Hello? John Watson."

There's a little awkward silence in the room as the person on the other end of the line talks. John says things like, "Yes,", "Yeah,", "Alright,", and other things like that. At one point, John picks up a notepad and begins to scribble words and numbers. After a while he says, "Alright, we'll be right over. Bye."

"Who was that?" Sherlock asks.

"Someone who needs our help," John replies. "They want us to find out who broke into their house. Here's the address."

John hands Sherlock the notepad and Sherlock doesn't recognize the address but shrugs. "Alright, let's head out."

When they come to the place, they don't know where the heck they are. It's dark and creepy and they want to leave as soon as they arrive.

The house is a small flat with bars on the windows and a creaky, rusty door. They knock on the door and when they don't get an answer, they carefully walk in.

The place is dusty and dark. Old furniture that hasn't been used in years sits on a cold, wooden floor. They rotting drapes are closed and the only light comes from a single bulb that hangs over a table with an envelope on it. Sherlock's heartbeat starts to quicken as he recognizes the handwriting all too well on the cover: To My Friend Sherlock

Sherlock takes a deep breath and opens the letter, John to the left of him, scared out of his mind.

To My Best Bud Sherlock,

**It's me again! How are you, sexy? I'm doing fantastic because you've fallen right into my trap! So, thanks! Oh, and there wasn't a burglar here. But there is one at 221B Baker Street. :)**

**Love,**

**Moriarty**

Sherlock drops the letter on the old oak table and steadies himself on the table.

"John, he's at our flat," Sherlock explains quietly. "He's in our bloody flat!"

"What?" John asks, brown eyes widening in disbelief. "No, he can't be! He picks up the letter and reads it for himself. "W-Well, let's go g-get him!"

"This is Moriarty we're talking about!" Sherlock says, turning to face John. "Who know what he's planning! He's unpredictable!"

"I know that!" John says, his temper rising. "I was the one he strapped a bomb to!"

Sherlock sighs. "This is what he wants. To tear us apart. And to kill us, but also tear us apart." Sherlock looks John straight in the eyes and says, "I don't want that to happen, John."

"Me, neither," John agrees, nodding. "Well, what do we do now?"

"John, there's something I haven't told you something-" Sherlock tries to tell John again.

"If it's that you stashed a dead hand in my dresser, I know that, but Sherlock this isn't the time for confession!" John interrupts. "Come on. Moriarty's probably long gone by now."

The two catch a taxi back to their flat and steel their nerves, trying to prepare themselves for anything.

They walk up the steps to their flat, unlock the door and walk in. They walk up the steps to their living room and they both let out a blood-curdling scream at the scene before them.

So you guys! Want more chapters? Post more reviews! Deal? Deal :)


	3. Chapter Three: The Wrong Way Home

Sherlock and the Case of the Captured Best Friend

A Sherlock Fan Fiction

By: Amber Warren

Hey guys! Thank-you guys sooooo much for the reviews, favorites, and followers! It makes me so happy seeing that you guys like this story! It makes me want to upload faster :)

Disclaimer: (Sadly) I don't own Sherlock. :'(. First off, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns Sherlock Holmes and Steven Moffast and Mark Gatniss (sorry if I spelt that wrong) own the AMAZING BBC show Sherlock. I only own oringinal characters. Oh, wait. There isn't any really. Oh Well!

Sitting in Sherlock's and John's chairs and couch around Sherlock and John's flat are the bodies of Lestrade, Sally, Mrs. Hudson, their landlady and close friend even if she was much older than the two, and Molly Hooper, a woman who works at St. Bartholomew's Hospital and has _quite_ the crush on Sherlock, who is very unaware of this and just thinks Molly is enthralled whenever he is in the room because of his massive intelligence. They sit in the same position and have the same wound on their temples, clean and small.

The two stand at the entrance of their living room, staring at the bodies. They don't know what to do and are frozen solid with fear as they stand there. Multiple tears creep into the corners of John's eyes and slide down his cheeks. Sherlock himself gets a couple tear in his eyes and wipes it away before John can notice. I mean, come on. Lestrade and Sally were _way_ below him, intelligence wise, and Sally was so bothersome, but they were people and he knew them. Mrs. Hudson was so sweet to Sherlock and John! She was their landlady, (not their housekeeper, she made a point of saying) but she was also a close friend, not to mention they'd known the older woman for years. Molly could be a bit obsessive with Sherlock, but she was kind and again, they knew her.

Anger welled up inside Sherlock. It formed inside his chest and threatened to blow him apart if he didn't take it out on someone or something soon.

So he took it out on a nearby teacup, throwing it against the wall and shattering it.

John stares at Sherlock. "Well, th-that was… nice."

"Can you b-blame me?!" Sherlock yells. "Look what he d-did!"

"I know," John shakes his head. "What do we do?"

"I don't kn-" Sherlock stops midsentence as he notices yet another envelope sitting on his desk. This time is says, "To My Sherlocky-Wocky" on the front.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock opens the letter and begins to read, dreading what new plan Moriarty is hatching.

**Hello, My dear Sherlock!**

**How are you, sweetums? I see you've figured out that these are dolls with your "massive intellect" and all, right? You haven't? Oh, awkward. Well, there you have it, honey! Oh, and thanks for the prints! I'll have LOTS of fun with them.**

**Forever you're dearest,**

**Moriarty**

Sherlock passes the note to John and John reads it hurriedly, he lets out a sigh. "Oh, thank God!"

"That's makes me think," Sherlock says, "that what if those other bodies were fake, too?"

"But what about the blood?" John asks.

"It's really easy to make something that looks like blood," Sherlock explains

John raises his eyebrows.

"I watch a lot of horror movies," Sherlock shrugs.

Higher still the brows go.

"I point out how things in them could never happen when I'm bored," Sherlock says. He walks over to the doll fashioned to look like Mrs. Hudson. He took a sample of the blood and walks over to his magnifying glass. He inserts the sample and nods. "Yes, this isn't blood. It's a mixture of one part water, three parts golden syrup, corn starch, and red food coloring. Clever!"

"And horrible!" John exclaims. "But what was the point of this? To scare us?"

"He wouldn't have gone to such trouble just to frighten us," Sherlock states, looking at the intricate dolls. They look _exactly_ like Lestrade, Sally, Mrs. Hudson, and Molly. It must have taken a while to make these. So why would he to such lengths to make them?

"I don't know," Sherlock admits. Just saying those words is foreign to his tongue. "Wait."

Sherlock picks up the letter again and rereads it. "'Oh, and thanks for the prints. I'll have lots of fun with them,'" Sherlock echoes Moriarty's cryptic words. "John, what do you think that means?"

John furrows his brow and thinks. "Well, did you have any pictures? Some people call those prints."

"I don't think I have any tha-" Sherlock stops midsentence as he realizes what that probably means.

Sherlock turns abruptly and stalks over to his safe. To his dismay, the safe is slightly off kilter. Sherlock stands and runs a hand through his dark, black hair and letting out a long, deep sigh.

"_Finger_prints!" Sherlock slams his fist down atop a pile of books, flipping them off the table they're perched upon. "That's what he meant! Why wasn't it obvious to me? Damn it! Moriarty could do anything with those!"

Before John can speak his mobile rings. "Oh, one sec." He answers the phone. "Hello? Yes. Alright. What? No, no that's not- I know what it says, but that's wrong! It's wrong! Your bloody machine is wrong! Alright, yeah, we'll come down. Bye."

Already suspecting something devious is afoot, Sherlock asks, "What was that about?"

John lets out his own sigh now. "Lestrade says that they've found 'your' fingerprints on those bodies. We have to come down, now."

Realization surges through Sherlock's veins. "Moriarty. He must've distracted the police, which isn't that hard, and planted my fingerprints on the bodies!"

John's mouth fell open. "Then they'll think that-"

"I killed those people. Yeah," Sherlock says, boiling with rage. Who does Moriarty think he is? "And Sally wouldn't believe I'm innocent even if Moriarty himself said, 'I killed them!' God, this is bloody awful. I'm so shafted."

"No, you're not!" John says encouragingly. "They'll know you didn't do it! Come on, we better get down there."

"I knew you did it!"

Sherlock, John, Lestrade, and Sally are all standing in Lestrade's office. Sally has a triumphant and smug grin on her face as she continues, "I knew it!"

"I didn't kill those people," Sherlock says, with a harsh tone to his voice. "I would _never_ do that!"

"Well, the evidence is there, Sherlock," Lestrade says, rubbing his eyes. "Your prints are on those bodies."

"But the letter-"

"You could've written that!" Sally exclaims. "You are probably in cahoots with Moriarty! Or maybe you _invented_ Moriarty! Everyone knows how much you _love_ these types of things."

Sherlock lets out a sigh. "I didn't do this! Moriarty came into our flat and took my fingerprints from my safe then he put them on the body! He did!"

"Oh, really?" Sally rolls her eyes. "Do you have proof?"

Sherlock's heart lightens at this. Before they had left, Sherlock had slipped Moriarty's letter from their flat into to his pocket. "Yes, I do!" Sherlock says, and reaches into his pocket. Feeling around inside his pocket, his spirits fall.

The letter is gone.

"I-I don't understand!" Sherlock practically chokes out. "It w-was here! I swear!"

"Sure, it was!" Sally rolls her eyes again and walks behind Sherlock, handcuffing him. "Sherlock Holmes, you are under arrest of the murder of Merideth Higgins, Brent Michaels, and Harry Triller. Wow, that feels good to say! Come on, we've gotta' book you now. Oh, this'll be fun!"

John can't believe this. "No! Sherlock didn't do this!"

"Sorry, John," Lestrade says, rising to escort Sherlock to get booked. "I really am, but the evidence is there."

John's temper starts to rise as they escort Sherlock out of the room. Sherlock looks back at John, a genuine look of terror plastered on his face. No. They couldn't do this to him. Sherlock was his _best friend_. No matter how arrogant and rude the bloke could be, he was his best friend and he _had_ to do something.

"You can't do-"

"No, John. I'm sorry," Lestrade sighs. No matter how horrible Sherlock was, Lestrade considered them friends. Lestrade was actually really sad. And disappointed. Sure, he was a big pain sometimes, well, most of the time, but Sherlock was technically a friend.

John sits there in Lestrade's cold plastic chair. What was he going to do? John knew that Sherlock was innocent, but it didn't look that way. Sherlock could _die_. They could give him the electric chair or something. Oh, God, just thinking about that makes John's stomach twist into knots.

"No…"

John sighs. There's nothing he can do. No. There has to be! He'll figure out something. He will.

But this time, he won't have Sherlock's help. No matter. He'd get to the bottom of the case, prove Sherlock's innocence, and get Moriarty once and for all!

With his mind made up, John sets off to solve the case and free his best friend.

Hailing a taxi, John slides in the backseat, states his address, and starts to mentally plan out his next move. The taxi twists and turns down alleys and John's eyebrows furrow. Well, this is an odd way to get home.

When the cabby misses his turn he speaks up politely. "Ummm, excuse me. You missed the turn."

"Not for where your headed, mate," A sickly-sweet, almost melodic voice floats into John's ears from the driver's seat.

John's heart stops as the driver turns around. It's not any old cabby doing his job.

It's Moriarty.

So you guys! Want more chapters? Post more reviews! Deal? Deal :)


	4. Chapter Four: The Cells

Sherlock and the Case of the Captured Best Friend

A Sherlock Fan Fiction

By: Amber Warren

Hey guys! Thank-you guys sooooo much for the reviews, favorites, and followers! It makes me so happy seeing that you guys like this story! It makes me want to upload faster :)

Disclaimer: (Sadly) I don't own Sherlock. :'(. First off, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns Sherlock Holmes and Steven Moffast and Mark Gatniss (sorry if I spelt that wrong) own the AMAZING BBC show Sherlock. I only own oringinal characters. Oh, wait. There isn't any really. Oh Well!

Sitting there in that dark, dank cell, with nothing but a simple cot and a dirty toilet he was _not_ going to be using any time soon, Sherlock is silently freaking out. If Sally had anything to do with his case, she would guarantee him a spot on death row. This was not fair! If only he had the bloody letter, he could prove his innocence! It said right on there that Moriarty was going to have "LOTS of fun" with them!

But why would he do this? Now, Moriarty and Sherlock couldn't "play their fun little games" that Moriarty loved so much. With him stuck in jail, Sherlock couldn't do anything and Moriarty would get what both he and Sherlock hated more than anything: bored. So why would he do this? He'd do anything to keep from being bored. Why would he lock up the one person who kept him from being bored?

Sherlock doesn't understand what the point of this is but he knows he will figure it out. Bloody hell, he's Sherlock Holmes for crying out loud!

But he can't help feeling as if he isn't complete. As if a part of his heart is missing. Scientifically speaking, his heart is good and dandy and working properly, or else he wouldn't be here living and breathing as he is. But deep down, he understands what this feeling is that he's never experienced before: he misses John.

Sherlock misses John.

Wait, what?

No, no, no. John helps him not to be bored and gets the groceries when Sherlock doesn't feel like it, why does he feel like this? He doesn't care for anyone. The closest he has ever come to loving someone is the admiration he has for Einstein, but this is different. He actually misses John and to miss someone, you have to care for them.

Sherlock cares for someone.

Well, that's new.

When John wakes up, he rubs his head which is radiating pain from every inch of it.

What happened?

All John remembers was seeing Moriarty and freaking out, trying to escape, and being blocked by automatic-lock doors. He remembers not being able to use his mobile in the taxi, too, and being brought to an abandoned warehouse, much like the one they found the bodies at. He remembers refusing to cooperate and get out of the car, and then he remembers being knocked out by the butt of a gun.

Explaining why he's here.

And where he is, is not a very pretty place. At all.

The dark, musty room John is in is absolutely disgusting. Spider webs cling for dear life to dark corners. Water drips from deep cracks in the ceiling. John swears he sees a rat scuttle across the faded wooden floorboards.

John draws his legs to his chest and tries to soothe his erratic breathing and even more erratic heartbeat. Why had Moriarty captured _him_? Didn't he want Sherlock? But then again, he had strapped bombs to him before, so who knew what screwed-up plans Moriarty had cooked up in his equally screwed-up mind.

Whatever his plan was, it certainly wasn't good.

Somehow sensing John's thoughts of himself, Moriarty enters the room. "Hello, Johnny-Boy! Happy to see me? Because I'm just _delighted_ to see you!"

John shudders. Moriarty is such a horrible sight to behold. It's not the way he looks that's terrible. Moriarty just looks like any other bloke: dark brown, cropped hair, fiery green eyes, light skin with a bit of stubble grasping his chin. It's the fact that he is absolutely mad and very powerful that sends a shiver down John's spine. A

"Not particularly, no," John mutters, through a clenched jaw.

"Really?" Moriarty put on a pout as a five-year-old would when told he couldn't have another lollipop. "Awww, I'm soooo sowwy!"

"I appreciate your apology so much…" John mumbles sarcastically.

"Good!" Moriarty's face changes to a happy delighted expression. And it absolutely terrified John.

"Why'd you capture me?" John asks, being straight forward.

"Why?" Moriarty asks innocently. "Why do people do anything? Because I got bored! And I knew if I captured his best little pal in the world, he'd come straight here! But, wait, he's in jail now, isn't he? Hmmm, quite the dilemma!"

Moriarty starts to pace back and forth, his hand stroking his stubble and looking off into the distance, as if he's trying to comprehend the situation.

"What to do? What to do?"

"Moriarty!"

"Losing our temper, are we, Johnny-Boy?"

John takes a deep breath. He _really_ didn't want to anger the nutjob. "What was the point of those dolls in our flat? That looked like Mrs. Hudson and all?"

"I got bored!" Moriarty smiles a devious smile. "I decided to give you a scare as well as steal the good detective fingerprints! Some presents! Did you like them? They're quite delightful, aren't they?"

"Try freaky and disgusting," John replied, an edge clear in his voice.

"What was the point of getting Sherlock in jail and then capturing me? He doesn't know I'm captured. He won't come."

"Well, he also won't come because he can't."

"Yes, but what's the point?"

Moriarty's eyes blazed with a fiery intensity. "I'm going to let Sherlock know that I have you and we're gonna' play some games. Oh, and we will! It will torture Sherlock knowing that you're here and there's not a thing he can about it! And even if they allow him out, I'm going to set a trap for him. A _great_ one."

"And where _is_ here exactly?"

"The warehouse where the bodies were found, of course!" Moriarty grinned evilly.

"Oh, of course. Silly me…"

"He'll think to come here and I'll trap him!"

"Bloody brilliant for someone with a mind as crazy as a box full of cats…"

"Shhhh, Johnny," Moriarty coos. "Stop talking. I need you now. Be a lamb and come here."

John gives him an incredious look that says, "Are you kidding me?"

"No!"

"Suit yourself. Frank! Topher!"

Two big, burly men come into the room, obviously Moriarty's minions. "Bring Johnny-Boy out here."

"Okay, I'm coming!" John begrudgingly stands up and walks over to Moriarty. "What?"

"Don't talk like that to me! Be nice!" Moriarty gets a look on his face that sends about seventeen shivers down John's spine. "We're going to have fun now. _Lots_ of fun."

"Please! You have to let me find him! He's my… best friend."

Sally whirls around at this comment. "Sorry? What? I thought you didn't have friends."

"Just please! You _have_ to! Don't do it for me. Do it for John."

Sherlock had just found out John had been reported missing and he knew it had to do with Moriarty. A man had reported it and Sherlock had to save his best friend.

"You know I wouldn't run away to escape my 'sentence'," Sherlock does air quotations do add emphasize to how stupid of him to have a sentence was, "because I wouldn't abandon John. I need to find him! I'm the only who can get him back if we're dealing Moriarty which we are. Do it for John."

Sally sighs. "I'll ask Lestrade. But you'll go right back in that cell after we find him."

Sally walked away from Sherlock's cell and was back in a few minutes. "Lestrade trusts you so…" She didn't finish her sentence, but unlocked his cell. "Just be fast."

"You thinks so little of me," Sherlock gives her a weak smile and she actually returns it.

"Bring him back, Freak," Sally says in a soft voice. "And don't have _too _much fun on it."

"I'll try," Sherlock smiles and with that, disappears from sight into the swirl of the Scotland Yard workers.

Coming to the warehouse, Sherlock receives multiple shivers down his spine as just about everyone who comes to the place does. Tightening his famous black coat around him, he pushes open the door and is greeted by layers of grime and filth.

Accidentally inhaling the dust, Sherlock coughs violently. Disgusting.

After his fit is over with, Sherlock narrows his eyes to get a better view of the place. It's so creepy and dark; he can barely see a thing. Luckily, he'd been smart enough to run home to grab a flashlight.

Sherlock flicks it on, his heart drops into his stomach, and is met with the most horrible sight he's ever seen.

John sits against an old wall, his eyes wide open and glassy, one of his hands cupped under his chin, one in his lap, a clean bullet hole in his temple.

John was Moriarty's next victim and Sherlock had been too stupid to notice.

Tears flood Sherlock's vision and his knees buckle from beneath him. Tears stream down his ashen cheeks and he can barely breathe. Sherlock is sick to his stomach at the sight of his best friend like this.

_You stupid idiot! _Sherlock thinks. _This is your fault! You should have known Moriarty was going to pull something like this_! _John's dead because of you!_

Sherlock staggers over to John and chokes out the words, "O-Oh, J-J-John. I, th-this, it-it's m-my fault."

Sherlock finally had started to care for someone and now they'd been ripped away from him. Like his heart feels right now. This is why he never gotten attached to people because they always were taken away from him and he just felt like falling apart. Like know.

And the person whose fault that John is dead is…

"Moriarty," Sherlock says with an acidity in his voice that could burn a hole through metal.

Moriarty had taken away the one person he cared for. Just like he was any other bloke walking down the street.

But John wasn't any other bloke. John was special. Special to Sherlock. And Sherlock was the same to John. They were best friends, for crying out loud!

Moriarty would pay.

Sherlock didn't kill those other people, but he might just become a killer tonight.

No more chapters until I get more reviews people! Sorry but I need some more if I'm going to upload more :) sowwy


	5. Chapter Five: The Anger and the Torture

Sherlock and the Case of the Captured Best Friend

A Sherlock Fan Fiction

By: Amber Warren

Alright guys! Somebody reviewed so now you guys get more :) Your welcome :P

Disclaimer: (Sadly) I don't own Sherlock. :'(. First off, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns Sherlock Holmes and Steven Moffat and Mark Gatniss (sorry if I spelt that wrong) own the AMAZING BBC show Sherlock. I only own original characters. Oh, wait. There isn't any really. Oh Well!

Sherlock Holmes is mad. I mean _really_ mad. Ready-to-kill-somebody mad.

Sherlock's heart is still thumping wildly against his chest and he still feels as if someone had punched him in the stomach. The initial shock of finding his best friend dead has faded away. Now all that remains is depression, sadness, and anger.

"I'm s-so sorry, John," Sherlock cries, large tears rolling down his cheeks. "I just w-want you to know, w-well, even though you c-can't hear me, that you are my best friend. I didn't even know I could_ have_ a friend, let a-alone a best friend. I just h-hope that I was yours, too. If not, that's fine. But you're my best friend and no one else will ever, ever come close. You just understand me, and put up with all of," Sherlock pauses. "Well, everything a-about me. I care about you so much, more th-than you'll ever know. And I'm so sorry you're dead be-because of me."

More tears rush to Sherlock's eyes.

"I'm so sorry, John."

Sherlock rises from John's corpse and wipes the big, thick tears from his eyes. He takes one last look at John, as if John was just faking being dead. No. No such luck.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and shakily walks deeper into the warehouse.

Sherlock creeps silently through the corridors, looking for any sign of life. Up the hallway he sees a room that emanates light from it. Sherlock calls Scotland Yard just so they'll know what's going on if things take a turn for the worst. Sherlock heads into the room and gasps at the sight before him.

Moriarty is sitting in a chair, in the same _exact_ position as the dolls were: a hand cupped under his chin, and one lying in his lap. His eyes are creepily staring off in to the distance and a sick, sadistic smile on his face.

Sherlock isn't sure if Moriarty is dead, since the only source of light is a flickering light bulb hanging from the high rafters above them, so he can't see if Moriarty has the tell-tale bullet hole all the other victims had.

But Sherlock doesn't have much time to decide because before he can, Moriarty pops out of his position and nearly gives Sherlock a heart attack.

"Bloody hell, Moriarty," Sherlock says, trying to soothe his racing heart.

"Hello there, buddy! Oh, did I scare you?" Moriarty puts on his five-year-old pout. "I'm vewy sowwy!"

Sherlock glares at the sick, demented man. "How could you kill John? Now, I'm going to have to kill you, you dick."

Moriarty cackles an evil laugh. "Oh, you're a riot! You? Kill me? Oh, you're too much!"

Sherlock narrows his eyes. "You don't think I could?"

"It's not that, honey," Moriarty says. "It's just that, you could never do it. Your morals are too high and mighty or whatever. And that's not how the story goes, anyways."

"Oh?" Sherlock raises his eyebrows, slightly intrigued. "So, tell me, Moriarty. How does the story go?"

"Well," Moriarty grins a wicked smile. "If I just told you, that wouldn't be very fun, now would it? But I will tell you what I've done already. I've burned you."

Sherlock's eyes narrow more.

"I've burned your heart. I did tell I'd do that, didn't I?" Moriarty grins wickedly. Man, he likes doing that. "By killing John, I've crushed your heart. You can feel it, can't you? Feel it deep down in your heart, even your soul. It feels as if your whole world is falling apart, doesn't it?"

"How'd you guess?" Sherlock glares at his arch-nemesis.

Moriarty shrugs. "I'm good at guessing. It's just one of my numerous and fabulous qualities."

"Oh, is that it?" Sherlock says, ready to kill the sick, sadistic bastard.

"Yes, and now I have a surprise for you!" Moriarty claps his hands together and his goons Frank and Topher come bundling out from the shadows. Sherlock takes a step back when his back is met with the distinct head of a gun. "Oh, you're not going anywhere, sweetie."

Sherlock's heartbeat accelerates at the feeling of the gun pressed into his back. Was Moriarty going to kill him? No. No, he wouldn't.

"We're here to play some games, now," Moriarty gets the creepiest look on his face Sherlock has ever seen and he gulps down his fear.

"I'm guessing you're not talking about Monopoly, are you?"

"You are correct. Oh no, the games I have in mind are _much_ better than plain ol' Monopoly!"

Greg Lestrade is sipping his coffee, one hand clenching a pen to death, doing his loads of paperwork when he gets the call.

"Scotland Yard, how may we help you today?" he says in his uniform police department voice.

Lestrade waits a few seconds when all he hears is silence before asking, "Hello? Is there anyone there?"

But his heart stops when he hears Sherlock Holmes' voice saying, "Blood hell, Moriarty."

_Moriarty_. Oh, wonderful.

Lestrade continues listening to the conversation. John? Dead? Damn it. He's such a nice bloke. Burned Sherlock's heart? What is Moriarty talking about? Games? Oh, he doesn't like the sound of that.

Lestrade stands, knocking over his coffee all over his paperwork. Oh, who cares? "Sally! Sally, get in here now!"

"What's wrong?" Sally rushes in, noting the stressed and slightly scared tint to Lestrade's voice.

"It's Sherlock. He's in trouble. With _Moriarty_," Lestrade says.

"And John?"

"…"

"Greg?"

"He's dead."

Sally gasps. "What? How? Oh, I'm going to _kill_ Moriarty!"

Lestrade nods. "We have to get over there _right_ now before he kills again."

"Why'd it have to be John?" Sally sighs, pulling on her jacket. "He's so nice! Couldn't it of been the Freak?"

"Sally!" Lestrade scolds.

"What?" Sally says as the two race down to their cars. "Where are they?

"I think I have an idea," Lestrade says. "Sally, we could actually catch this psycho!"

"I wouldn't count on it," Sally says, as the two pull out and head out to save the consulting detective from the, well, consulting criminal.

"Much more fun than Monopoly. I don't think that's possible!" Sherlock mocks Moriarty.

"Oh, it's very possible," Moriarty laughs.

Sherlock is strapped against the back wall of the creepy room with Moriarty smiling creepily at the detective.

"So, what's this little game we're going to play?" Sherlock says, trying to steel his nerves.

"Oh, it's one of my favorites!" Moriarty explains. "What happens is the evil mastermind tortures the good brave hero until he cries! Sound like fun?"

Sherlock grimaces. "Loads."

Moriarty walks over to a table heavily laden with objects. Cigarettes, a lighter, and an electric taser are scattered on the table. Wait, cigarettes?

"Why cigarettes?" Sherlock asks. "How will you torture me with those? By not letting me have one? Lame."

"Oh, you'll see," Moriarty grins evilly. "Yes. Yes, you'll see."

Oh, joy.

Moriarty picks up the pack of cigarettes. "Care for a smoke?"

"I'm fine. I'm on the patch," Sherlock says with acidity as he sees Moriarty pick up a lighter and light the cigarette.

After smoking it for a few minutes, Moriarty walks over to Sherlock. He blows smoke into Sherlock's face and says, "Like that, sexy? Well, then you'll _love_ this!"

With on swift move, Moriarty sticks the boiling hot cigarette onto the bare skin of Sherlock's inside forearm.

A red-hot burning sensation ripples through Sherlock's arm and he lets out a heart-wrenching scream.

Moriarty grins in his own twisted triumph and twists the cigarette harder.

Sherlock lets out another cry of pain. "St-Stop! Please!"

Moriarty removes the cigarette and grins. "What? So you could smoke these, but not touch them? My, you're brave!"

Sherlock sighs in relief. "Try that yourself. You won't be that brave."

Moriarty pretends to ponder this. "Hmmmm. NOPE!"

Moriarty walks back to the table and grabs the taser. He flicks on the "On" switch and turns to face Sherlock.

"Tell me, Sherlock," Moriarty says, "have you ever been tasered before?"

Sherlock gulps. "No, and I don't plan on it."

"Well, I guess I'm going to ruin your plan. Like _always_."

Moriarty walks back to Sherlock and lifts up his blue collared shirt just below his chest so that Sherlock's stomach is showing. "I've heard is hurts most on the tummy. Wanna' find out?"

Before Sherlock can answer or before Moriarty can do anything more to damage Sherlock's body, the two turn their heads when they hear, "Sherlock! Can you hear us?"

It's Lestrade's voice. The trick with his phone worked. Bloody fantastic!

Sally and Lestrade enter the room and survey the strange scene around them. "What is going on?"

Moriarty drops the taser and Sherlock's shirt. "Oh, crap."

"Stay right where you are, Moriarty!" Sally says, pointing a gun at the fiend. "We've finally got you."

Moriarty hangs his head in seemingly defeat and allows himself to be handcuffed. As Sally leads him away, he looks up at Sherlock and winks, sending a shiver down Sherlock's spine.

Lestrade unstraps Sherlock. "Are you alright?"

"I'm okay. I just wish I could say the same for John," Sherlock sighs.

Lestrade nods. "He was a great man. And brave, too. Man, was he brave. You're a great man, too."

"No, I'm not," Sherlock says. "Well, not as great as John."

"Can't disagree with that," Lestrade grins.

Sherlock smirks.

"Well, I'll meet you out there, alright?"

Sherlock nods.

"You okay?"

"Fine."

Lestrade shrugs and walks out. You never knew what Sherlock was thinking.

Sherlock sighs, thinking of John. He was great man. A fantastic one at that.

Sherlock sighs again and starts to head toward the door when he hears a voice he never thought he would again.

"Sh-Sherlock?"

Sherlock turns around, his heart racing. "John?"

There stands John, groggily rubbing his head, one hand propped against the doorframe of a room Sherlock hadn't noticed.

John is alive.

Thanks you guys for reading! It means so much to me when I see reviews and it really speeds up my typing and uploading! So review, review, review! :)


	6. Chapter Six: The Finding

Sherlock and the Case of the Captured Best Friend

A Sherlock Fan Fiction

By: Amber Warren

UGH! No one else reviewed! But you have to promise to review since I'm givin' you guys another chapter, okay? Okay! Enjoy!

Sherlock wants more than anything in the world than to sprint over to John and hug him so tight, he won't be able to breathe. But that just wouldn't be Sherlock's style, now would it? Oh, bloody hell, who cares? Sherlock thought he had lost John forever and now, here he is, alive and well! Sherlock feels the depressed weight he had gained when he saw John dead lift off his heart and a feeling of happiness he's never felt before descends on him.

Sherlock's best friend, the only person he truly cared for that he thought he'd lost forever, is back.

Before he can stop himself, Sherlock runs over to John and envelopes the shorter man in a hug so tight, yep, he can barely breathe. "Sh-Sherlock -, I-I c-can't - b-b-breathe!"

Sherlock takes a step back and tries to compose himself. Tears had begun to pour from his blue eyes as he hugged John with all his might. "Oh, uh, s-sorry! I th-thought you were dead! What happened to you?"

"Well, all I really remember is getting in a cab, the cabby turning around, revealing himself to be Moriarty, then trying to get out, not being able to, and being knocked out," John explains still rubbing the spot on his head where Moriarty had knocked him out. "Are you crying?"

"Uh," Sherlock wipes the tears from under his eyes with his sleeves and sniffs. "No!"

John tilts his head. "You were, weren't you? I guess you're not as heartless as you make out to be. You do care about people."

"Don't you dare tell anyone!" Sherlock looks around, making sure no one can hear about Sherlock's soft side.

"I won't," John laughs. "Wait, why did you think I was dead?"

"Because I saw you! You were dead!"

"Do you want me to be?" John tilts his head.

"No, no, no, of course not!" Sherlock exclaims and then he remembers the corpse. "But you had a bullet through your temple and were in the same position that the other murdered people were in! Wait, if you're alive, then whose corpse was that?"

Sherlock all of a sudden runs from the room, John tagging along like the good ol' days. Sherlock can't help but think, _That's more like it!_

When the reunited pair come to the place "John's corpse" is, Sherlock examines the body closer. At first glance it looks like a person, but at second glance…

"It's a doll!" Sherlock exclaims. "Like the ones Moriarty put at our flat! Moriarty knew I'd be too distraught over finding you like this, I wouldn't check out the body thoroughly! Clever!"

John raises an eyebrow. "And horrible?"

"Oh, yes, well, that, too, of course!" Sherlock says quietly.

John rolls his eyes. "Come on, let's get out of this creepy place."

The two exit the old warehouse and hope they never have to see that place again.

Sally and Lestrade are waiting outside for Sherlock. Sally is texting and Lestrade is on the phone when the two exit the warehouse. Sally drops her phone as dose Lestrade when they see John.

"B-But, y-you-"

"Don't worry, I'm not dead," John grins. "I just got knocked out!"

"B-But, Sh-Sherlock," Lestrade stutters, "you said th-there was a body!"

"It was a doll," Sherlock explains. "We found others in our flat that Moriarty put there."

"Oh, yeah, mentioning the lunatic," Sally says, turning to glare at Moriarty who is sitting calmly in the police car, "he confessed to the crimes. You're off the hook, Freak."

"See? I told you I didn't do it!" Sherlock says. "So, as always, I was right and you were wrong."

"Don't push your luck, Sherlock," Sally now turns back to glare at Sherlock.

John yawns. "Ugh, I'm exhausted! Can we head home?"

"Yes, of course," Lestrade nods. "You two should go home and get some rest; you've had a rough time. I'll get you a cab."

Sitting in that funny little cab (not driven by Moriarty), Sherlock and John sigh contentedly. They'd both gotten their best friend back and we're about to enjoy a well-deserved rest.

Stepping out of the cab, they walk up the concrete steps to 221B Baker Street and step inside.

The two hear the voice of Mrs. Hudson laughing, and the pair give each other quizzical looks. Mrs. Hudson never has company over.

Sherlock and John walk into their living room and see Mrs. Hudson sitting in John's chair and some unknown gentlemen sitting in Sherlock's chair. Mrs. Hudson turns bright red and stammers, "Oh, hello boys! I thought you'd be out later on your case!"

"It got wrapped up early," Sherlock says, coming around to see the man sitting in _his _chair. "Who are you?"

"Oh, hello, young man!" A jolly-looking fellow looks up from his tea. "I'm David McGee, a, uh, _friend_, of Mrs. Hudson."

"I'm sure," Sherlock mutters sarcastically. "John, could I speak with you in the kitchen for a moment?"

The two walk into the kitchen. Sherlock whispers harshly, "Okay, who is that guy?"

"Probably David McGee?" John tilts his head in confusion.

"Right," Sherlock says sarcastically again. "_McGee?_ That's such a fake name!"

"What are you on about?"

"That bloke out there sipping _our _tea and sitting in _our_ chairs is not who he says he is! And we have to find who he is and what he wants!"

"Ugh, Sherlock, we just off a case, on where we both could've died!"

"That's true… oh, whatever! He's probably just an old pal of Mrs. Hudson's or something, right?"

"Sure, we'll go with that!"

Sherlock takes one last peek at the man and shrugs. "Eh, seems fine to me. I'm too tired to deduce anything right now."

John nods and walks over to wear the tea is stored. Sherlock rushes over and smiles, saying, "I can make some."

Once again, John tilts his head. "What?"

"I'll make it. You always do. You should just relax. You've had a really tough time," Sherlock says, wiping out the tea packets and starting the stove.

John shrugs, sighs, and sits down at their table, which is laden with samples of something or other. Sherlock walks over to the table and removes his experiments; John probably wants a clean table to sip tea on. Sherlock grabs some biscuits, sets them on a plate, and as the tea comes to a boil, sets everything down on the table.

"Thank-you, but may I ask why you are being so pleasant?" John asks, blowing on his tea, before taking a small sip.

"Well, because I realized that I uh, haven't really always been the nicest to you," Sherlock starts, sitting down across from John with his cup of tea. "I realized that I need to appreciate you more and all that you do. You're always so patient and kind to me and I don't really reciprocate that. I can lighten the load or something. I mean, I don't really do anything all day. I could go grocery shopping? I mean, last time you went, you kind of got into a row with the chip-and-pin machine, didn't you?"

John laughs. "Yeah, I did. That was fun."

Sherlock smiles. "I could do a lot more than I do. I mean, when I thought you were dead, the world went dark, it seemed. I realized then that, you're my best friend and that I should treat you better. Like a real best friend should. I'd die if I lost you, John. "

John grins, getting a mischievous look on his face. "You need me that much, do you?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Yeah, guess I do. You need me too, don't you?"

John nods, smiling. "Yeah. Guess I do, too."

The two smile and relax, sipping tea and chatting as the sun starts to set in 221B Baker Street. Just best friends sipping tea, chatting, and relaxing, as best friends should. John is safe, Moriarty is behind bars, everything is right with the world.

Or so Sherlock thinks.

"You're going to be behind bars for a long time, Jim," Sally says, in the front seat of the police car. "We've finally got you, you bastard."

"Watch your language, sweetheart. Unless you want a good ol' fashion spanking," Moriarty says creepily from the backseat.

"Shut it, Jim!" Lestrade angrily barks from the driver's seat. That was his friend he was talking rudely about! "Or keep talking. Get more time added to your sentence. Be my guest. Take your pick."

"Hmmm, that's a toughie," Moriarty pretends to ponder. "Eh, I'll pick neither, but I'll pick to escape."

"What? Oh my God-"

Moriarty had somehow gotten his handcuffs loose and is now opening the police car door, which he somehow unlocked. After one last menacing smile, he leaps out from the moving car. "Bye-bye!"

"Stop the car!"

When the two police get out of the car, Moriarty is long gone, probably into the dark forest. The sun had set and there is no way they can find him.

"He got away again! It's too dark and that forest is too deep to search. We'd need more people. How does he keep bloody doing that?" Sally whirls around, punching an unknown force in the air with her fist.

"Don't worry. He will do something and we'll catch him again," Lestrade comforts Sally.

"If you say so."

After the two have driven off, a shadow slinks out into the middle of the road. Moriarty grins in triumph.

"Those two idiots haven't gotten me yet, sexy. We can still play our games, Sherlock."

The End

I hope you guys liked this! I worked super hard on this, review, review, review! And tell you friends about my work and have them read my stuff too, please! Thanks for reading! And check out my other stuff too! Thanks soooo much!

Xoxo Amber


End file.
